The braying of a donkey somewhere beyond the tall skeletons of trees heralded dusk. Those very trees encircle Victorian architect William Butterfield's vicarage masterpiece, The Palace, here at hilltop Sheen. Looking back westwards, across the sweep of pastures newly released from long, snowy imprisonment, there were a few orange streaks left between grey-blue rolls of cloud. It was a case of "night must fall". And still the braying echoed ahead – an ass surely demanding its supper and a warm stable for the night.

A couple of hours earlier I'd crossed the edge of the heather moor below the summit of Revidge and caught sight of what appeared to be a line of dark tombstones poking above the vegetation. A second glance revealed them as army troops sitting at rest up here on this military training ground. Nor was I alone in catching sight of them, for I soon heard barking ahead, and the next moment two great labradoodles came bounding towards me, one black, one white. These jolly, antipodean, canine friends were soon standing beside me, waiting for their mistress to catch up. Both animals stood to attention as they gazed intently at the crouching soldiers while I scratched the white one's head. It looked for all the world like a shag-pile carpet on legs.

The farms on Reapsmoor looked forlorn as I went by. Sullen clouds blew across from the high, western crest of Morridge, and the far slopes of Axe Edge were still streaked with snow. Then a car overtook me, heading towards Longnor, and there, sitting in the back like two concerned grandmas not fully confident of their driver's ability, were the labradoodles. After crossing the Manifold's thundering meltwaters at Brund Bridge I climbed the long slope to come in earshot again of that braying donkey.